


he that says farewell

by wearethewitches



Series: there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Magic, Marriage, Portals, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 10:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18009428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: “I will not send you home,” is what the Dark One says when five days pass. He does not even give Robin a reason.-or, Robin and Emma get married, have a kid and face up to the truth: Robin has to go home some day. it's just unfortunate that some day comes the moment their son is born.





	he that says farewell

**Author's Note:**

> “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.” - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

“Lady Locksley.”

“Mr Swan.”

Robin grins, looping his arm around her shoulders as they exit the courthouse. Jacob on his left lets out a rather fiendish cackle.

“Man, this is priceless! I can’t believe it,” he shakes his head, “You’re hitched! _Actually_ _fucking_ _hitched!_ ”

“I still think we should have a party,” Annabel interjects, pouting slightly. Compared to Emma, Annabel is a picture, but Robin finds he cares more for Emma’s flower-patterned dress and loose hair than Annabel’s silk gown and delicate French bun; it’s not like they could afford to buy a wedding dress, in any case and as Emma said when Jacob offered to buy him a suit, _screw normal._

“Nah,” Emma disagrees, “I’m happy just going to a bar for some drinks. This was partly for tax purposes, let’s not pretend.”

“But you still love each other, right?” Annabel winces, as if expecting to hear a negative on that front.

Robin doesn’t take offence. “I adore Emma and I love her dearly. We’re just trying to ease along our lives, here. Doing it with someone else is…”

“Smoother?” Jacob suggests.

“Yeah,” Emma shrugs.

Walking along the boulevard, the four under-thirties find a bar to celebrate in, Robin and Emma paying for the first bottle of champagne before Jacob takes over, citing ‘best man duties’. When they get toasted, Jacob graciously calls them both by their names – Emma Swan and Robin Locksley – rather than opposite like they joked or hyphenated.

“I’m not always going to be here,” Robin tells them, when asked. “And Emma is her own person. Unless she wishes to, my name is not hers.”

“What do you mean, ‘not always going to be here’?” Jacob questions, shocked.

“He’s got a medical condition. He could drop at any time, only get a day’s warning,” Emma says, brushing aside Jacob and Annabel’s upset queries when they try to push. Robin knows it’s because she doesn’t believe it herself, but-

But she had to know. Robin refused to lie to her.

“It’s shitty, that’s what it is, especially with… _us,_ ” Emma says later on in their apartment, after finishing their fourth reading of _Stardust_ in as many months and watching an episode of _Dragonball Z_ on their new TV before bed. “But you’re pretty concerned about this. You think it’s going to happen at some point.”

“It _will_ ,” Robin insists. Emma puts up her hands.

“When, then, _when_ it happens… Just, you’re genuinely worried. You genuinely think you’re going to be dragged away to a mystical land where your lord and master is waiting!”

“Liege lord,” Robin grits his teeth, “Rumplestiltskin is my liege lord. I swore to be his vassal for ten years. It was a contract – and I know it’s unfair to you, I know, I really do! He warned me not to make attachments, not to- not to make _friends._ ”

They fight and push, shouting and even screaming at each other. Truthfully, they bring out the worst in each other when they discuss it. Emma is the one going to get hurt- who is _getting_ hurt by what Robin has done and he knows it – it’s all his fault. Only, Emma staunchly believes he can _fix_ _it_ , too, that he can just _ignore_ the call back to the Enchanted Forest

If only she believed.

“How about this,” Robin finally sighs and gives in. “We live like I’m never going away. We just…keep going. We ignore it. We spend time together and live and work and- and have a life.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “Are you trying to placate me?”

“A little, yes,” Robin admits freely, tired of fighting. He rubs the bridge of his nose and picks up an arrow he had re-fletched, twirling it in his hands. He doesn’t look at Emma, focusing on the arrow; he doesn’t know what to do with his wife.

_My wife._

_Oh, Dark One – please do not take me away from her._

“…alright,” he hears her say. Robin goes still. “Alright,” Emma says, louder. “We live like normal. We ignore it. It’s like if you were part of the army and could be deployed any day. Only- only I know you aren’t coming back, when you finally go.”

Robin looks up and he feels like his heart is caving in when he sees the look on Emma’s face. He discards his arrow, standing up and embracing her, pressing their lips together. The kiss is an apology and reassurance, all in one.

 _I’m here,_ it says. _I love you. I adore you. I’m right here._

* * *

“I call godfather!”

“Gods, Jacob,” Robin laughs, rubbing his ear. “Could you be any louder, perchance?”

“Yes! Yes, I can!” Jacob bounces in his seat, nearly upturning his coffee. Around the café, Robin can see a few patrons glancing over and can’t help another little chuckle. “When’s she due? Do you know what you’re having? Oh gosh, I’m so fucking _excited_ for you, man!”

“August,” Robin replies. “Feel free to buy us everything.”

“I really will,” Jacob claps his hands rapidly. “I’m going to be the _best_ godfather _ever_ – and you’ll be the best dad, obviously. Aw, this is so _great_ , Robin! Annabel’s going to be so jealous. How are her cravings?”

“Mostly, it’s junk food and stuff she’s not allowed to have, apparently,” Robin answers, sipping his latte. “So, sushi, wine, greasy monstrosities that I banned from the apartment years ago out of disgust…”

“Tell her if she wants to pig out, Annabel and her can go out some time,” Jacob offers. “One of the house rules is no take-out unless it’s movie night and even then, we get thin and crispy pizza, _hmm…_ ”

Robin snorts at the look on Jacob’s face. “It can’t be that good, mate.”

“It really is, I’m not kidding, bro,” Jacob sighs, shaking his head. “We’re spending New Years at my moms cabin, the one in _Vancouver_ , ugh. So cold.”

“I like the cold.”

“Why do you live in Florida, then?” his friend asks rhetorically, shaking his head, bright blonde fringe flopping down past his eyes. “Robin, seriously though, that’s awesome. A kid. You’re going to be a _dad_.”

“I’m going to be a dad,” Robin repeats, unable to stop smiling. He thinks of Emma in her pyjamas, hopping between two feet with a test clutched in hand, _Sunny D_ in the other; she’d been so nervous, but happy all the same.

Well. More nervous than happy.

Robin still doesn’t know why. She promised to tell him, though and that’s all that matters.

“You thinking about names?”

“Bobbie for a girl,” Robin says immediately, “Barbara, after my mother.”

“That was quick,” Jacob mutters, intrigued. “I didn’t know your mom was called Barbara. What about your dad?”

“Roland Senior,” Robin’s lip twitches. “Roland the tenth, to be exact. I’m Roland the eleventh.”

“What! Rob, this is the kind of thing you mention, dude!” Jacob says, bouncing again. “That’s so cool – so if you have a kid, a son, they’d be Roland the twelfth?”

“I’ve not mentioned it to Emma, but I don’t- I don’t know,” Robin says, sipping his coffee, not sure why he hasn’t said anything. “It’s not so important – not to me, at least. That was another part of my life.”

“Alright, well, I suppose that just gives you a whole heap of other names to choose from,” Jacob says, before pausing. “Hey, I know that Emma doesn’t talk a whole lot about her folks, or at all, really, but…”

“Emma was abandoned as a baby,” Robin tells him frankly. “She has no idea who her family is. It’s just us, Jacob. Just us two.”

“Just you _three_ , rather,” Jacob’s lip twitches, before he bumps Robin playfully. “That’ll cheer her up. She’s building something good.”

“Yeah,” Robin says, voice soft.

* * *

Emma doesn’t talk a lot about her past. Robin knows she was abandoned on the side of a road and that her baby blanket is the only thing she has of herself. It has her name on it, in beautiful purple ribbon that’s faded over the years. It’s a question itself – what kind of parents abandon their child with a personalised baby blanket?

He knows she was in juvenile prison, once, a few months before they met. He knows she likes Chinese takeaway and he knows she hates McDonald’s with a passion because of how many times she had it as a kid when her foster-parents just gave up trying to cook dinner. He knows she has burn marks on her left shoulder from being used to stub out cigarettes and that her wrist aches when it’s cold, from how it healed wrong.

By February, Emma’s stomach has started to round out and Robin can tell that it’s bothering her. She lies back on the floor in the middle of their apartment on the fluffy brown rug they got from Annabel and Jacob at Christmas and stares at the ceiling for hours and she wolfs down her food like she’s not going to get any more.

“Emma, darling, you’re worrying me,” Robin whispers to her when they curl up on the sofa. He turns the TV off and Emma, who he previously thought was dropping off, stiffens up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Are we going to bed?”

“Emma…”

Emma shuffles forwards, leaving his embrace and getting up. “No book, tonight?”

“Emma, talk to me,” Robin urges her, leaning forwards but staying sat down. He has to get up in the early morning to work, so no, there won’t be any reading tonight – but they have to talk, too. It’s more important. “I- I don’t know how to ask you what’s wrong other than asking, _what’s wrong?_ Is it- is it bad? Do you need time? Help?”

“No, no, Robin,” Emma sighs, pacing, stretching out and growling to herself when her back doesn’t crack. The curve of her stomach is shadowed in the lamplight from beside their bed and Robin thinks of their child in their – their daughter or their son, made of both of them, together. “I’m just…everything’s coming back. Juvie. Prison. I’m sorry.”

“No, darling,” Robin says softly, reaching out a hand. Emma takes it as she stops pacing, squeezing tightly, like a deer who has smelled a predator. “Why are you scared?”

“I-” and Emma stares at him, green eyes wide as she blurts out, “I’ve had a kid before.”

Robin’s eyebrows rise sharply.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve had a kid before,” she repeats in a rush, holding his hand tightly, as if to prevent him from letting go. “Neal’s kid. I don’t know what it was – I had them in prison and gave them up for adoption. I wasn’t- I wanted them to have _better_ and I’m here with you, now and I _really_ don’t want to fuck this up, Robin. I’m terrified.”

“Oh, _darling,_ ” Robin stands, drawing her into another hug. He presses his nose into her hair, smelling her coconut shampoo. “We can do this. _You_ can do this.”

“Even if you get magically summoned to another land?” Emma asks in a joking manner, but her voice shakes, just like her shoulders.

“Even then,” Robin murmurs. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, Emma. No-one is perfect and we’ll both make mistakes, but we’ll do it, Emma. _You’ll_ do it. If you fuck it up, you fuck it up – but if you do, you can make it better. You know what _not_ to do, in the future.”

“Jesus Christ, Robin,” Emma whispers. “You really know how to reassure a girl.”

“I’m a charmer, I know,” Robin teases, tugging her earlobe with his teeth. Emma bats his arm.

“Down boy,” she laughs wetly, pressing a short kiss to his lips, then his nose. “You’ve got work tomorrow. I can see the bright pink post-it from Grace on your copy of _Sherlock Holmes_.”

Robin sighs. “Ruin my fun, why don’t you?”

Emma sticks her tongue out at him, swatting his arse. “Bed, Mr Swan.”

“Only if you join me, Lady Locksley,” Robin interlocks their fingers, pulling her past the bookcase. “To bed with us both?”

“Indeed,” Emma replies in a fake posh accent, grinning. “Let us depart, milord.”

Robin grins back at her.

* * *

It doesn’t quite stop. Emma still eats terribly fast and she still spends _some_ time doing absolutely nothing, but it’s more an effect of less work and having nothing to do than habit; her employers start to let her go when they learn she’s pregnant _and_ working three jobs. Robin listens to her grumble and complain each evening that her last job, a waitressing gig, might be coming to a short end if she gets any more fat.

“More _pregnant_ , you mean,” Robin corrects, eyeing her rounded form. “I rather like it on you.”

Emma raises an eyebrow at him, amused. “Really? Does this get you up?”

“A bit,” Robin smirks. “You’re my wife, the mother of my child, _gorgeous_ …I could go on.”

“Go on,” Emma encourages him, digging into her dinner as he leans back, stretching out his arms the way she likes it. He watches her eyes follow the tight lines of his shirt and smirks deeper.

“Well,” he starts in a low voice, “I love your eyes. They remind me of the forests at home. My favourite thing about you. I love your ears and your hair; and I most _definitely_ love your belly, where we have a child growing and waiting to be born.”

“I was expecting dirty talk,” Emma says, but she listens to him as he speaks.

“I love your waist and running my hands down your spine; I love the ticklish spot you’ve got at the base of your spine, even though it bothers you right now with the baby weighing on it.” Robin pauses, grinning, “I think your feet are weird.”

“Hey!” Emma laughs.

“They _are!_ Your feet are two different sizes!” Robin exclaims.

“Only a half size different,” Emma snickers. “If I have weird feet, you’ve got a weird nose.”

“This is my mum’s nose, I’ll have you know and it is an amazing nose,” Robin sniffs delicately. “Our child will probably inherit it.”

“They’d better not,” Emma snorts, “How am I going to explain that to them? ‘Oh, sorry kid, your dad insisted on you inheriting his dead weird nose – don’t worry, you’ll grow into it’.”

“They _will_ grow into it,” Robin insists, finishing his dinner with emphasis to make his point.

“Sure,” Emma says, looking down at her stomach to pat it. “Sorry, kiddo. Daddy’s serious.”

“ _Dead_ serious,” Robin nods.

Emma rolls her eyes.

* * *

Her skin is pale and there are new purple stretch-marks that overlap and sit beside her old ones. Emma isn’t really bothered by them, though once, she was morbidly fascinated. She thinks of her baby she left to the system – they’ll be turning six this year. If she’s lucky, both her children will be born in August.

Part of her regrets giving them away. Emma thinks that will remain with her for the rest of her life, even though now, she knows it was for the better. Emma at eighteen, fresh out of prison, grieving and angry was in no place to be a mother. Oh, she would have done it – but not well and certainly not for very long.

Her new baby – her and _Robin’s_ baby – is part of her fresh start, part of the flow of this new life of hers past prison and Phoenix. Even if Robin fucks off one day, as unlikely as Emma believes it’ll happen, she’ll be set on her course with this child who she’s going to hold and care for – loving them deeply, with all her heart. Emma has enough money to keep herself supported for years to come, thanks to the generosity of Jacob and Annabel and from the paychecks she and Robin save religiously.

“No, no, like this: _na diavaso_ ,” Robin draws the words out slowly and Emma copies him, trying to keep her patience as she learns his mother’s first language. She says it again and again, until he pinpoints what pronunciation is correct, grinning at her and kissing her encouragingly.

“Thank-you for this, my love,” he says to her, “This means the world to me.”

“It’s important,” Emma replies. “We’ve only got four months until our kid gets here and we both want them to grow up with it. I’d just rather understand them when they start speaking back.”

Robin chuckles and there are more phrases – more things he imprints upon her brain so they become natural parts of their day. When dinner finishes, it’s Emma speaking _Elliniká_ , asking him for the next chapter of their most recent book. Robin replies with words she knows and sometimes, ones she doesn’t – sometimes leaving it up to her to guess, but usually not.

They speak it to each other exclusively, as much as they can. Emma insists, because she knows many bilingual children in the foster-system who forgot their first languages completely when no-one replied. _Practice makes perfect,_ she thinks to herself when she becomes frustrated with her own lacking. Sometimes she feels almost unearthly subpar to Robin, who speaks so many different languages and built his life with only a little more than a charming voice and a good personality – God knows _Emma_ never convinced some rich white guy to give her money for nothing.

Emma doesn’t bring it up with Robin. He’d hate himself for it and wallow in guilt over his own accomplishments, like they aren’t something to be proud of. _We’re in this together._ At night, Emma grips Robin tightly and is genuinely proud of him as she ignores her own lack of self-worth.

_But what have I done? Stolen and cheated my way out of a fine or a jail sentence, led a bail-bondsperson around in circles…_

She supposes to herself that without her, Robin wouldn’t have such a good life. After all, it was her apartment they were living in – that he lived in with her and without her, as he sorted out his life. Emma squashes the nasty voice inside her own head with beliefs like that. _We’re in this together,_ she thinks again, determined and true.

_We’re in this together._

Then, four months later, the night she goes into labour, Robin’s tattoo starts to glow.

* * *

It itches against his chest. It’s a heat – a brand, one that feels fresh and scorching. He hides it under his shirt as he sits with Emma, hearing the storm outside and wondering whether or not it’s just the Florida weather or if it’s magic, condensing and forming into the portal that will drag him back to the Enchanted Forest.

Not home. The portal will not drag him back home – not when his home is two people, one still unborn.

Emma’s hand grips his and it’s only slightly awkward. She squeezed his other so hard earlier in her labour that a bone in the back of his hand fractured, the bruise blooming blue and purple. She screams and squeezes tighter. Robin is unsure whether or not she will break his other hand before it is over.

“Nearly there now, easy…” the midwife stands by the end of the bed, leaning and holding back one of Emma’s legs, other maternity nurses buzzing around in preparation. It’s coming any second, Robin realises starkly. _I’m going to be a father._

“I can’t,” Emma pants, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“You can, _agápi_ _mou_ ,” Robin encourages, leaning across to kiss her forehead. “My darling, you’re nearly there. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” Emma cries and then she screams, thunder rattling the windows and lightning flashing across the sky. Robin feels a hum in his bones, the air full of static and the fluorescent bulbs above their heads flickering ominously.

 _It feels like magic,_ Robin thinks, mouth dry. _No. No, not yet – please!_

“Nearly there-” the midwife states and Emma screams once more, her cries joined by a new set of lungs, a newborn squall filling the air. “There we go, Emma, Robin – you have a son.”

“A son!” Robin repeats, eyes stinging with tears as he sees him- _him_. Their son. Their baby boy. “Emma, we’ve got a son!”

“How is he?” Emma cranes to look at him, not even hesitating to take the offered body. Their son squirms and wriggles, so lively in her arms. Roland lets Emma’s hand goes, staring in awe even as thunder still rumbles, even as the lights still flicker and the sky outside crackles with electricity. “Oh my god, _Robin_ , he’s beautiful. He’s got your hair and- and he _doesn’t_ have your nose, thank fuck-”

Robin reaches out.

It is a mistake.

As soon as Robin’s fingers brush their tiny sons wet, baby-red body, there is a spark – a catalyst of magic. It recognises father and son and behind Robin, a portal swirls into existence, made of black ink and malevolent orange. It tugs on his navel and Robin barely has time to realise what is happening before he’s pulled backwards, thrown into a whirlwind rollercoaster.

He falls upside down and sideways, twisting and turning so hard he thinks he’s going to be sick and then he is on the ground, heaving. It is a warped version of his first journey through dimensions, with acrid stone beneath his hands instead of grass and the pungent smell of dark magic filling his nostrils.

Robin had forgotten dark magic had a smell.

“Dearie! Apologies it took so long – got a bit side-tracked,” Rumplestiltskin cheers, “You’re back in one piece, though! How was it? How was the _Land Without Magic?_ Was is barren? Awful?”

“Send me back,” are the first words to spill out of his mouth. He surges to his feet and staggers across the room to where the Dark One stands, hands gripping what has become a foreign material in a world with cottons and faux leather. Rumplestiltskin stares at him, wide-eyed and startled. “Send me back!” Robin shouts, desperate.

“Dearie, what in the world happened?”

Robin cringes and thinks of his son, feeling the ache in his fractured hand bound in white tape and grieving for Emma, who will have realised what travesty just occurred on what should be one of the happiest moments of her life.

“My family. I had a family, Dark One. I- I had a wife and I had a _son_. Send me back, please,” he begs and he drops to his knees, nearly dragging Rumplestiltskin with him. The Dark One pulls away from him, stepping back as he kneels there, bereft. “Send me again, use the ritual once more.”

“I’m sorry, Sir Roland, truly sorry – but I can’t,” Rumplestiltskin says, voice quiet and tentative. “The ritual took a lot out of me, it’s why it took so long. I had to take nearly a week’s rest before trying again.”

“A week?” Robin says and it is a torturous thought, imagining five years of time passing in a sole seven days.

“More like five days,” the Dark One amends.

“A year for a day,” Robin sobs, then. “They will live their lives before I turn twenty-three.”

“Oh- _oh_ , Sir Roland-”

“Robin,” he interrupts, still sobbing, shoulders shaking as he presses his hands to his face. “My name is Robin Locksley- Robin _of_ Locksley. I became that what you said I would become.”

“Not yet,” the Dark One whispers, before leaving him alone with the pains of his own heart.

* * *

Robin spends the week in a haze. At some point, he starts wearing his old clothes and finds that he has grown in size and stature since he last lived in the Dark Castle. His shirt from the thrift store and his jeans that he borrowed from Jacob are folded and put away in a drawer somewhere – but he keeps his boots that are made for both working construction and hiking in the wilderness.

 _I am a father,_ he thinks when he washes away the tiny stain of blood from his fingers. _I am a husband_ , he thinks when he twirls his silver wedding band, the one with Celtic knots engraved on the outside to match Emma’s that Jacob and Annabel bought. They are two things that cannot be taken away from him, but there is only a physical reminder of one.

“I will not send you home,” is what the Dark One says when five days pass. He does not even give Robin a reason. Maybe it is because the tattoo upon his chest is still there, but faded and changed, turned dark green to match the tattoo Robin has on his arm.

Robin remembers when he got it. Emma’s is identical. They got them together, combining their own designs to have a gold lion rampant wreathed in white daisies on a background of forest green. The colours are stark and so much brighter than anything the Enchanted Forest has to offer – tattoos are an art form in the Land Without Magic, unlike here.

When the week is done, Robin comes back to himself. He draws himself from his sorrow, packs a bag and leaves – not even discussing what it means for his contract with the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin said it himself what was years ago to Robin, that fulfilling the requirements of the contract to keep his mother alive were easy.

Barbara of Locksley was never a frail woman. Illness came for her once and she was cured, yes, she was cured – but if it comes for her again, then perhaps it is time that nature took its course.

Robin has dabbled enough in magic.

It is devastatingly easy to slip back into old habits and routines. Different places bring out different people in ones self, it seems. Robin even finds that he is ready to introduce himself as _Sir Roland_ , even though it has been many years since he has called himself such and as he travels across the land, relearning local politics and alliances, Robin discovers his own image.

Sir Roland of Locksley is known to be a great hunter and good man, one who respects the people and drinks beside them. Sir Roland of Locksley has also begun to be heralded as very, very _dead_.

“Murdered for being kind to a magical being – oh, it’s such a travesty,” says one bartender from a town in the White Kingdom. “The Dark One couldn’t even be bothered to save him, did you hear! People heard him calling out for his liege, but no! No, the Dark One just stayed holed up in his ruddy castle and let the poor knight burst into flames! Not even ash remained!”

“Such a detailed story – are you early on in the chain of rumour?” Robin asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh aye, my niece sent me a letter telling me special, like,” the bartender nods, waving his arm about, “I’ve been telling _everyone_. Oh, it’ll be hard on his family, I bet – good folk, apparently, them lords of Locksley.”

“Lady,” Robin corrects, before fleeing in the night. _I must not let Mother think I am dead. I will not be the cause of even more suffering among the ones I love._

Only, rumours fly faster than horses can run. By the time he reaches Locksley, it is clear the land is in mourning. When Robin tries to approach the guards around his childhood home, he is barred.

“None will see the Lady,” they say.

“But the rumours are wrong, good sirs,” Robin tries to explain, only to get a punch to the face. It sends him to the ground, his fighting reflexes lost after years of stagnation.

The guard spits on him, “Take him to the cells! Our good young lord is _dead_ and you will not come off easy for disrespecting his honourable memory!” Dazzled by the punch and stupefied by the show of loyalty, Robin lets himself be carried off to the dungeons and thrown into a cell with two others.

“Scum,” one of the guards mutters, before locking the door once more. Robin gingerly gets to his feet, looking hesitantly at his cellmates.

“I don’t…I don’t suppose you’d believe me either, would you?”

“What are you in for?” one of them asks in a gruff manner. They look up and reveal themselves to be a man, uniform curls falling past his chin and as-equally dark moustache.

“Apparently, for disrespecting the memory of a dead man – but I assure you, I am far from dead,” Robin says quietly, glancing out past the bars. “You?”

“Petty thievery,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m John.”

“…Robin,” Robin replies after a moment, lip twitching as he recalls something Emma used to say to him. “We’ll have to level up our friendship before you find out my backstory.”

“Pardon?” John blinks at him from where he stands against the wall and the slight levity of his quote is lost, Robin’s shoulders dropping.

“Sorry. I’m…ill at ease with the world. How long until we are released?”

“Who knows, what with the Lady being in mourning,” John glances up at the ceiling through which presumably, Robin’s mother is sat in solitude. “Could be weeks, unless someone takes over control of Locksley from her. She’s not from here – got no legal rights to rulership, I think.”

“You are exactly right, John,” Robin says, crestfallen. He looks to the third in their cell. “And what of you? Are you a thief or a supposed charlatan?”

The third person shifts from their place in the corner, sat upon the bench. When they speak their voice is guttural and odd. “None of your business.”

“They were here before me,” John offers.

Robin eyes them carefully, peering through the gloom. Their hand comes up to pull their hood further over their head and Robin turns his attention on it instead.

“Ah,” he says, figuring their problem, “Are you a lady? Fear not, I am no scoundrel and would gladly beat this one to death if they tried anything.”

The woman jerks and John let’s out a short _oi_ in his own defence, clearly offended by Robin’s suggestion. Her hood is pushed back and Robin meets dark brown eyes that are settled on a tan, angry face.

“Who are you to defend me? You say you are thrown here for being yourself, yet I have not heard of a lord by the name of Robin,” she accuses.

“I have gone by the name Robin for years,” Robin replies, frowning as he adds, “in certain circles, at least. I wish to be known as it now, even in this perilous time for my family.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” she bares her teeth.

Robin draws himself up, angry. “I am Sir Roland of Locksley, vassal of the Dark One, slayer of the Aetolian Boar and a failed murder victim. Who are _you?_ ”

“Marian,” the woman bites, clearly unappeased. “Failed?”

“Yes,” Robin says tersely. “The Dark One summoned me and ripped away the curse Taliesin worked upon my heart for the deaths of his nephews. I know not of Taliesin’s fate, only that the curse was meant to end both our lives.”

Marian frowns, brow knitting together. A light from the corridor reminds her to hide her face and as a guard passes their cell in silence, she tugs her hood back across her head. For a sparse selection of moments, there is quiet.

“…you’re really Sir Roland?” John asks in a low voice.

“I am,” Robin replies, before batting the bars of the cell lightly. “Though I doubt the guards will let me get close enough to prove it. They’ve changed and so have I, over the years. I look not like myself, anymore. Friar Tuck might recognise me…”

“Friar Tuck was expelled from Locksley a month past,” Marian mutters. “The Lord was adamant his book-keeping was false.”

Robin’s blood turns to ice. “The Lord?” he repeats, knowing what that means. He looks at John accusingly, “I thought you said no-one was in control of Locksley!”

“No-one is, technically,” Marian interrupts, before John can reply. “But it’s hard to give the man any other title when no other exists. The Lady still holds power, truly, but she has locked herself away – or been locked up. The Lord…your _uncle_ , he came and named himself interim taxer and ruler.”

“The Sheriff of Nottingham,” Robin mutters, John giving him an odd look. “Call him the Sheriff,” he says, louder. “I never wanted this. I knew what it would mean if my mother died before I turned twenty-one or even if _I_ died. What else has he done?”

“Raise taxes,” Marian replies promptly. “Locked people away for late payments. Changed the guards and mixed up the patrol routes – they go through private land, now,” she grounds her teeth audibly, “Including my family’s. They attempted to _appropriate_ our only work-horse. I was arrested for ‘impeding justice’ – bah! _Bastardos y coños_ , all of them!”

Robin knows enough Southern to understand her insults and enough about the laws of his own land to know her punishment. “How long have you been here?”

“Two weeks, I think,” she says.

“It won’t be long until you’re released, then,” Robin replies, “unless my uncle has changed _that_ , too.” He looks to John, who is taller than him and far beefier. “When they come to release her, do you feel confident in taking down a guard?”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are we escaping?”

“Oh yes,” Robin says grimly. “Very much so. My uncle will not relent – I know him that well. He would see me and lie that I was not his nephew until he were purple-faced. We must work to undermine his authority and that starts by breaking out of his own dungeon.”

 _I knew this was coming,_ he thinks when John knocks out the guard two days later. _I knew my uncle was corrupt,_ he thinks when he grins at Marian from a stolen horse. _I knew I would become Robin Hood_ , he thinks when he sees the first wanted poster. Robin becomes a thief in the night, a bandit and a ruffian – stealing from the rich to give _back_ to the poor.

All the while, he wears his wedding band and thinks of Emma – Emma and their beautiful, darling son.

* * *

“You know,” Jacob starts, tentative. Annabel is gaga over the baby across the apartment on the sofa, making faces at him and tapping his nose. “You know you can lean on us. Really. If you ever need babysitters or just a break-”

“It’s alright, Jacob,” Emma interrupts him, holding her coffee against her chest, feeling the familiar heat that has been denied her throughout her pregnancy. The smell of caffeine rises, hitting her nose like an old friend. “I mean, I might hold it against you if you stop giving us money,” she jokes and it says something about how familiar she’s become with Jacob – how much of a friend she has become to him and vice versa – that she dares joke about money in front of him.

Jacob’s lip twitches, but he doesn’t smile. “Are you going to have a funeral?”

Emma is quiet for a long moment, only Annabel’s cooing audible. “I think I’ve got enough to think about without adding a funeral to the mix. It’s not like…he wanted his body donated to science. I’ve dealt with that already, so there’s nothing to put in a coffin or cremate.”

The lies are like acid on her tongue and they burn all the more for how Jacob accepts them.

“What about a plaque, then? I can get one – put it on a park bench somewhere that you can take the baby when he’s older,” Jacob suggests and it isn’t that bad of an idea, not really. Not when Robin isn’t dead – not when Robin is simply gone, never to return.

Not when there’s any chance at all in any universe that he could come home to them.

Emma agrees conditionally. “No dates. No ‘father, husband, friend’ shit. Just…‘Robin Locksley’ and- and our tattoo.” She rolls up her sleeve, baring the mark for him to see. “An engraving.”

“Let me take a pic,” Jacob takes out his phone, angling her arm right, snapping a shot before nodding, putting it away. “Sometimes dedications mean more when less is said,” her friend says wisely, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pressing a brotherly kiss to her head.

“Thanks for being around,” Emma murmurs.

“No problem, Ems,” Jacob says, before tugging her across to the living space. “Now! Time for you to introduce us to Baby Locksley properly!”

“Yes, please! What’s his name, Emma?” Annabel brightens, handing him over as Emma quickly presses her coffee into Jacob’s hand. _I’ll drink you later,_ she promises the mug, shifting her son in her arms and breathing in the baby scent of his dark shock of hair.

“Jacob, Annabel – say hello to my son,” Emma grins and she _thinks_ she manages not to seem heartbroken as Jacob slips down to rest on the sofa with his wife, her son’s godparents eager and waiting.

“C’mon,” Jacob chides with a smile.

Emma rolls her eyes and makes a faux-serious face, lifting her son up under his armpits as if he were Simba, trying not to imagine Robin doing this in her place.

“My kid – my awesome baby and your godson…may you be kinder than Samwise, funnier than Pippin, cleverer than Merry and true to your name – Roland Frodo Locksley.” Emma ignores her friend’s cheers and exclamations, hugging her son to her chest, kissing his head and grasping one of his hands to press another to his tiny fingers.

Roland looks up at her with dark brown eyes that glint like stars and she falls in love all over again.


End file.
